Mr Murchison refolded his newspaper, took his pipe once more from his mouth, and said nothing.

“John, put down that paper!  I declare it’s enough to drive anybody crazy!  Now look at that boy walking across the lawn.  He does it every night, delivering the Express, and you take no more notice!  He’s wearing a regular path!”

“Sonny,” said Mr Murchison, as the urchin approached, “you mustn’t walk across the grass.”

“Much good that will do!” remarked Mrs Murchison.  “I’d teach him to walk across the grass, if—­if it were my business.  Boy—­isn’t your name Willie Parker?  Then it was your mother I promised the coat and the other things to, and you’ll find them ready there, just inside the hall door.  They’ll make down very well for you, but you can tell her from me that she’d better double-seam them, for the stuff’s apt to ravel.  And attend to what Mr Murchison says; go out by the gravel—­what do you suppose it’s there for?”

Mrs Murchison readjusted her glasses, and turned another row of the tiny sock.  “I must say it’s a pleasure to have the lawn neat and green,” she said, with a sigh.  “Never did I expect to see the day it would be anything but chickweed and dandelions.  We’ve a great deal to be thankful for, and all our children spared to us, too.  John,” she continued, casting a shrewd glance over her needles at nothing in particular; “do you suppose anything was settled between Lorne and Dora Milburn before he Started?”

“He said nothing to me about it.”

“Oh, well, very likely he wouldn’t.  Young people keep such a tremendous lot to themselves nowadays.  But it’s my belief they’ve come to an understanding.”

“Lily might do worse,” said John Murchison, judicially.

“I should think Dora might do worse!  I don’t know where she’s going to do better!  The most promising young man in Elgin, well brought up, well educated, well started in a profession!  There’s not a young fellow in this town to compare with Lorne, and perfectly well you know it, John.  Might do worse!  But that’s you all over.  Belittle your own belongings!”

Mr Murchison smiled in amused tolerance.  “They’ve always got you to blow their trumpet, Mother,” he replied.

“And more than me.  You ought to hear Dr Drummond about Lorne!  He says that if the English Government starts that line of boats to Halifax the country will owe it to him, much more than to Cruickshank, or anybody else.”

“Dr Drummond likes to talk,” said John Murchison.

“Lorne’s keeping his end up all right,” remarked Stella, jumping off her bicycle in time to hear what her mother said.  “It’s great, that old Wallingham asking him to dinner.  And haven’t I just been spreading it!”

“Where have you been, Stella?” asked Mrs Murchison.

“Oh, only over to the Milburns’.  Dora asked me to come and show her the new flower-stitch for table centres.  Dora’s suddenly taken to fancy work.  She’s started a lot—­a lot too much!” Stella added gloomily.